


All or Nothing

by manic_intent



Series: Martingale [2]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alpha!John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Mpreg, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega!Santino, That A/B/O AU where there are consequences, to unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 17:45:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11064003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: Because Santino D’Antonio was a massive asshole even within John’s extensive experience with people of the total asshole variety, this was how John found out that he was a father: a 2am phone call, on a Wednesday, Santino on the line. “If it’s a boy, do you have a preference for a name?”John double checked the caller ID, blinking into the dark, then the time. “Santino? The hell are you talking about?” At the foot of the bed, Dog snuffled inquiringly, peeking up.Santino let out a long-suffering sigh, as though John was being difficult and not, as it were, woken up in the middle of the night by someone he’d only definitively decided he wasn’t going to kill a week ago and whom he hadn’t seen or talked to in a couple of months. “The child. If it’s a girl, I think we’re obliged to name her after my sister. If it’s a boy, hm, I don’t know. I was going to say my father, but Cassian said I should get your input.”





	All or Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't really intend to write a continuation, let alone mpreg. I don't personally like reading mpreg, let alone writing it... but the opening line stuck in my head and then the ficbunny had to be let out.

Because Santino D’Antonio was a massive asshole even within John’s extensive experience with people of the total asshole variety, this was how John found out that he was a father: a 2am phone call, on a Wednesday, Santino on the line. “If it’s a boy, do you have a preference for a name?” 

John double checked the caller ID, blinking into the dark, then the time. “Santino? The hell are you talking about?” At the foot of the bed, Dog snuffled inquiringly, peeking up. 

Santino let out a long-suffering sigh, as though John was being difficult and not, as it were, woken up in the middle of the night by someone he’d only definitively decided he wasn’t going to kill a week ago and whom he hadn’t seen or talked to in a couple of months. “The child. If it’s a girl, I think we’re obliged to name her after my sister. If it’s a boy, hm, I don’t know. I was going to say my father, but Cassian said I should get your input.”

In the background, very faintly, John could pick up Cassian growling, “I didn’t mean _right now_ , for fuck’s sake.” 

John frowned up at the ceiling, trying to process. “Cassian’s with you?”

“Yes. As it turns out, Gianna willed the remainder of his ward-contract to me in the event of her death. Probably why he tried to kill you instead of me.” 

John rubbed a hand slowly over his face. “Can I talk to him?” 

There was a muffled sound as the phone was passed over. “Sorry John,” Cassian said, utterly bland. “Did we wake you up? New boss is kinda an asshole.”

“I noticed.” John muffled a groan. He could feel some sort of revelation pressing against his consciousness, an unwelcome one, and his temple was starting to throb. “Uh. So.”

“Remember when you didn’t end up killing Santino in the Continental?” Cassian sounded like he was walking out of a room, heading outside, grass crunching underfoot. 

“I’m not gonna like this, am I?” Santino had grudgingly offered to pay to rebuild John’s house as a sort of not-apology, John had pointedly declined, and that had been the end of it, as far as John had hoped. Weeks later, the lizard part of his alpha brain had been tempted to find Santino during his true heat, but thankfully reason and apathy had taken over. 

“Congratulations,” Cassian said, in the same blithe monotone. “You really should have worn a goddamned condom.” 

Cassian, John reflected, didn’t use to be such an asshole. Either Santino was a bad influence, or he’d taken being stabbed in the chest by John very personally after all. “Are you guys in Italy? Rome? Naples?”

“Can’t tell you that.”

“Uh. Yeah.” That had been rude. “Sorry I asked.” 

“Yeah, well, those sisters still make the best lasagne I’ve eaten,” Cassian said, a non-sequitur that made John start to ask a question before his brain woke up the rest of the way and swallowed it. 

“Thanks. Hey, uh. You all right?”

“Still recovering. Ares too. But I’m pretty sure the person who’s the most pissed off over what went down is the boss.” 

“Well… ah… it was kinda an accident, so, if he wanted to uh, it’s his choice.” Wasn’t as though John was going to be the one having to do any of the hard work. 

“You know how this works. Clans need heirs.” 

“Right.” John rubbed a hand over his face again, his palm lingering over his eyes. “Could you pass me back to Santino?” 

Cassian was stepping back indoors. Distantly, someone—house staff, probably—said something in Neapolitan. Santino was in Rome—Ristorante Arlù near the Vatican made Cassian’s favourite lasagne—and he was in one of the D’Antonio strongholds, which would be stocked with staff uprooted from Naples. There was a muffled sound, and Santino said, “Well?” 

“Can we talk?”

“We _are_ talking.” 

John swallowed his instinctive retort, pinching at the bridge of his nose and gritting his teeth. “Face to face.” 

“Hmm, last time we met face to face, you said you’d shoot me the next time you saw me.” 

“I’m not gonna kill you, okay?” That actually even sounded stupider said out aloud than in John’s head. “I didn’t even mean it anymore then.” 

Santino said nothing for a while, so long that if not for the faint sounds of people walking around or murmuring in the distance in the background, John would’ve thought he’d hung up. “This was a courtesy call,” Santino said at the end, clipped. 

“I see that.” Santino went quiet again, probably cooking up some other complicated scheme, and John bit down on his sigh. It was too early in the morning for this. “Let’s talk, okay? Where are you?” 

Santino hung up, and John stared dumbly at the ceiling for another long moment, then he groaned and tossed the phone off the bed. Dog whined, padding over to snuffle worriedly at his cheek, and John pushed halfheartedly at his muzzle. “He is _such_ an asshole,” John told Dog, and Dog whined again, as though agreeing.

#

Santino had been briefly tempted to take out a second contract on John Wick, around when he’d first stared at a positive test in utter disbelief. His heat had been patently late, and it had been just his luck, really, that the one time he hadn’t been careful because he’d just been happy to be alive had to be _that_ kind of one _fucking_ time. It hadn’t even been a real heat, he’d complained days later to Ares, when she’d patted his back as he threw up his breakfast, bent over the toilet.

John had always had a terrible tendency to fuck up everything that he touched in novel and unexpected ways. Santino would’ve been impressed, if he was capable of holding down anything right now but fruit and fucking _vegetables_. “You know John’s gonna find you,” Cassian said mildly, as they got off the private jet onto the runway at Naples International Airport.

“Good,” Santino said, as Ares opened the door to the waiting sedan. “If he does, I hope you shoot him in the balls. Use the whole clip.” 

“Agreement I had was to protect you. Don’t think John’s going to try and hurt you. ‘Course, if you tried to kill him _again_ , you saw how that went down the last time.” 

Santino glanced at Ares, who made a show of ignoring them both and getting into the driver’s seat. “Shouldn’t the both of you still be in hospital?” he grumbled, as he got into the back. 

Cassian let himself into the front passenger seat. “Kinda aches sometimes, but we’re good. Thanks. For your sincere concern.”

“I think Gianna willed you to me to torture me.” Santino glared out of the window as Ares pulled away over the tarmac, one of a small procession of sedans. 

“Nah. She was always looking to the future. You’re the last D’Antonio—for now anyway. You know,” Cassian said, in that neutral monotone of his, “if you’d just _asked_ her for a bigger share of the pie, she’d have given it to you. She loved you.”

That stung. Santino watched the world go by, trying to hide it. “Had Father named me to his seat instead of her, she would have done the same thing.” 

“Maybe,” Cassian conceded. “But she probably wouldn’t have fucked it all up this badly. You’re lucky John didn’t decide to raze _all_ your ops to the ground the way he did for the Tarasovs.” 

“Is there a point to this?”

“My point is,” Cassian said, with exaggerated patience, “maybe you shouldn’t piss him off again just for the sake of it. Jesus. Is he always like this?” 

Ares shrugged, though she smiled faintly when Santino caught her eye in the rearview mirror. “I have business in Naples,” Santino said, wishing it didn’t all sound so defensive, which he did. Actual Camorra business. 

A month spent putting out all the fires that John had started—technically at Santino’s instigation—had culminated in this meet-or-greet with the other heads of the Camorra clans. Normally, Santino liked glad-handing, more than Gianna ever did, but now he was out of sorts and all too aware that only a decade ago, it was rare for omegas to ascend to any ranking position in a clan, let alone to a seat at the High Table. He was wearing blockers again, but he was also under no illusions about the sanctity of his secret. Word got around quickly in this business, and they’d spent his entire triggered heat in the Continental, very loudly.

Cosa Nostra incursions occupied most of the first day, the Sacra Corona Unita and ‘Ndrangheta on the second, and it was on the third day that Giovanni Ricci cut him from the herd during a break to the library of the villa they were currently occupying. “Grand-uncle,” Santino said formally, when they were alone. He smiled. 

Giovanni didn’t even blink. The old man was a hand’s breadth shorter than Santino, but he still somehow managed to seem imposing, portly as he was, with silver hair combed sharply over his widow’s peak. He had the eyes of a dead fish and was just as sentimental. “Your mother taught you that, hm?” 

Santino’s smile faltered, but only for a second. “She may have.” Ricci had been his mother’s distant uncle, the marriage an alliance of sorts, one that had held water even after her execution. 

“Marry into a vicious family, make vicious kids,” Giovanni said sourly. “I liked your sister.”

“As did I. I loved her.” 

“Tch. No. You and your father, you’ve both only loved power, God help us. Massimo held on to his seat because the D’Antonio family was the strongest. Now…” Giovanni trailed off, curling his lip. “Look at what you’ve done, boy.” 

Santino swallowed his temper, with difficulty. “We’ve always valued the Ricci family’s opinion.” 

“Don’t give me that shit. We’ve been at each other’s throats for longer than I’ve been alive. Then your goddamned father has my niece shot.” 

“Yes,” Santino said tightly. “My mother. I was there.”

“We Ricci remember our debts,” Giovanni said. “Could be it looks like you don’t deserve the seat you have. Having your sister killed. Pissing off John Wick, of all people.”

“Matters between me and Mister Wick are resolved.”

“With that guy? Never. He killed Viggo Tarasov and the son over what, a dog? Then he went back and razed Abram’s holdings to nothing. _You_ burned his house down. I’m beginning to think that he’s probably just biding his time. That anyone else allied to you might end up as collateral damage.”

Ah. So here was the trap, the edges of it, anyway. “Do the other clans share this curious opinion?”

“They might.” Giovanni narrowed his eyes. “But we’re family, you and I. This doesn’t have to be difficult. We can be a full family again, the Riccis and the D’Antonios.”

“And in this happy scenario, I turn over my seat at the Table to you, I presume.” 

“In the happy scenario, yes. There are… less happy ones,” Giovanni said, harsh with menace. 

Santino was about to respond, but there was a knock on the door. Giovanni glowered, annoyed, the moment broken, about to snarl something at whoever had dared to interrupt, when the door opened anyway, and of all the people in the world, _John_ let himself in. 

“Ah,” John said, into the incredulous silence, glancing between Santino and Giovanni. “Am I interrupting something?” 

Santino somehow managed the presence of mind to recover first. “What are you doing here? I wasn’t… expecting you so early.” 

“Missed you in Rome,” John said, and looked thoughtfully at Giovanni. The old man actually took a small step back. 

“Oh? How much?” Santino said, playful, rolling the dice, and John glanced at him again, blank for a heartbeat before striding over, to press his palm against the small of Santino’s back, bending to scent his neck, a lover’s ritual. “Hey,” Santino snapped, clapping his fingers over John’s mouth and shoving his chin up. “We’ve talked about this.” 

“We’re not in public. And Mister Ricci’s your grand-uncle, isn’t he?” John tilted his head, as though assessing Giovanni again, and the effect was very likely unsettling coming from the most (in)famous assassin in the world. “Think we haven’t met before.” 

“No we haven’t, Mister Wick,” Giovanni said, a little weakly. “Santino, perhaps we’ll speak again later.” 

“If you like,” Santino said, inclining his head, and Giovanni let himself out of the library. Once his footsteps couldn’t be heard, Santino exhaled, and John dropped his hand, stepping back. “Good timing, or the worst timing, I still can’t decide.”

“I showed up at the front door, Ares told me to come on through. She thought it was important.”

“So everyone’s seen you.”

“Probably.” 

“For an assassin, you don’t seem to grasp the concept of subtlety very well.” 

“You looked like you were about to hit him. Something wrong?” 

“As though you’d care,” Santino said, glaring up at him. “You’ve already made it worse. I didn’t want my nature dragged front and centre of this meeting.”

“Sofia Fortugno is an omega.” 

“You don’t see her advertising that, do you? How did you find me anyway? This retreat is meant to be a secret.” If Cosa Nostra had found out—

“Got my ways. Guessing you’re not free to talk.”

“What gave that away?” Santino bit out, and walked over to the shelves, hands folded tightly behind his back. “The other Camorra clans are on the verge of a _mutiny_ , apparently. Thanks to you.” 

“I didn’t start this.”

“But it might be salvageable,” Santino said, as the grudging solution wormed to mind. “If you play along.” 

“What do I get for that?” 

“I’m not certain that you’re capable of doing what I want you to do. Or willing.” 

John sighed. “You want to be the boss, yeah? C’mon. I worked for the Tarasovs for decades. Viggo was like that. I stayed out of his way and did what I was told. Wasn’t hard.”

Santino turned. John had a point. “So what do you want?” he asked, unable to hide his distaste. 

“Told you.” John was blank again, unreadable. “I want to talk. Preferably without you being a complete asshole.” 

Santino bristled, but somehow managed to bite down the snarl bubbling in his throat. He needed John right now, and John knew it: there was blood in the water, and things like John thrived on coring out weaknesses. “Fine,” he said. “Tonight.”

#

The ancestral seat of the D’Antonio family was a sprawling vineyard planted on volcanic soil, in the shadow of Mount Vesuvius. The villa was more like a castle in miniature, heavily fortified, the lush, neat rows of vines providing little to no cover all the way to the main road, a kill zone watched day and night by snipers. This fortress was what John had originally thought he’d have to breach when he’d told Santino that killing Gianna was impossible. She’d been far too confident in Rome.

John relaxed as they pulled up the slope, past the vines, and Santino noticed: he scowled, already in a venomous mood. “Go on. I know you want to say it.”

“Say what?”

“Something stupid about how I should wait out my… condition… in here. Because it’s _safe_.” 

John looked evenly at Santino, meeting furious eyes, waiting, until Santino finally looked away, his lip curling. “I don’t like telling people what to do,” John said quietly. 

Santino blinked, startled enough that he was silent past the security check, through into the house. He abandoned John at the foyer, thankfully with Cassian, who sorted out a guest room on his behalf and got them both fed, and then they sat on a stone bench in the garden before the kill zone, having a beer. “You shouldn’t have come,” Cassian said, when they were both half a beer down. 

“I know.” John hadn’t thought much about kennelling Dog with Charon and buying a ticket to Rome, but he’d had all of the flight to process. “Thanks. For making him call me.”

“Yeah, well.” Cassian coughed. “We’re even.”

John nodded, finishing his beer in silence. Eventually, Ares emerged from the house, beckoning, and Cassian took the empty bottle from him as John followed. The master bedroom was on the top floor, the private chambers taking up a quarter of the floor space, a private museum of art and sculpture. Santino sat surrounded by his dead father’s legacy, on an antique divan, legs crossed, a vermillion silk robe worn loosely over black pants, barefoot. He’d washed off the blockers, and his sweet, heavy musk was everywhere in the room. John was waved to an armchair beside the fireplace. 

“In some cultures,” Santino said, with a nod at the statue on the plinth beside him, “the Gods of war and wisdom are the same.” 

John looked. It was a marble statue of a woman in armour, looking to her left, an owl on her shoulder; she had a spear in one hand and a shield in the other. Since Santino seemed to be expecting him to say something, John tried, “Greek?”

“And the Norsemen, the Armenians, the Hindus…” Santino made a dismissive gesture. “War without wisdom is pointless. So I try to avoid it. I sent you after my sister, but after that, what I did was without wisdom.” He paused, when John just stared blankly at him, and growled, “This is the closest to an apology that you’d ever get from me, John.”

“Wasn’t looking for one. I understand why you did it.” John had actually tried preparing a little mental script on the flight here, but right now, under Santino’s unblinking, openly suspicious stare, he couldn’t remember it. “So. Kinda didn’t think this would happen.” 

“Yes,” Santino said, his bitterness so stark that John straightened up. “I suppose we have that in common.”

“Ah, so,” John cleared his throat, “if, well, that’s to say, whatever you want to do, keep it, or not, that’s up to you.” 

Santino stared at John as though he’d sprouted a third eye. “Obviously.” 

“I meant, I’m not going to mind either way. Actually, I do mind, but. It doesn’t matter that I do.” John would be the first to admit that he was terrible with people, unless death was involved: it was why he’d been bewildered at the beginning with Helen, unable to parse tenderness. He took in a deep breath. “That probably didn’t come out right.”

“I’m keeping the child,” Santino said warily. 

“Okay,” John said. The visceral sense of relief that welled up made him feel like a bit of a dick. Even with Helen, he had never thought about fatherhood; had always observed families out and about with polite impartiality. It wasn’t that he had anything against children: it’d just been an improbable thought, like flying to Mars, and John’s world had always built itself in straight, visible lines. 

Something in Santino’s stiff poise wilted. He looked over at the warrior woman, pale fingertips picking at his left sleeve. “I’ve never thought about having children. Gianna always said I could let it be her problem. Even though she was an alpha.”

“Is this a problem?” 

Santino glared at him. “Not for _you_ ,” he bit out, and John met his stare, calm, until Santino stopped bristling and looked back at the statue. “Having children is something people do when they need meaning in their lives. When it’s not an accident. They’d explain it in a way that’d make them feel better about it. Company in their old age, ha! Religion, inevitability, legacy. It’s expected of anyone with a womb.” Santino curled his lip disdainfully. “The continuation of the species.”

“Well,” John said, uncomfortable, “I kinda think kids are something people should have only when, uh, they’re prepared. To be parents. Good parents.”

“Good parents?” Santino repeated, mocking. “Us?” 

“I’ll be satisfied if the kid grows up to be less fucked up than the both of us.” 

Somehow, that made Santino laugh, the vicious tension in the air growing thinner. “Ah,” he said, and he was rueful now. “What have we done.” 

‘We’ was a good sign, maybe. People were difficult to figure out. “Doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” John said, wishing that talking didn’t feel so awkward. This was why he usually preferred stillness. “I didn’t have a father, growing up.” 

“Oh?” Santino narrowed his eyes, stiff again. John had made a mistake. “I did. It wasn’t particularly pleasant. Do you know what happened to my mother?” 

John shook his head. He might have been friends with Gianna, but it was an impersonal friendship. That was the way of their world. 

“Outside, in the vines, there is a gravestone under a tree,” Santino said, with a nod at the window. “There’s a lie carved on it. ‘Maria Ricci-D’Antonio, Loving Wife and Mother, Dearly Missed’. My father had her shot over the kitchen table. First time I saw someone die. Second time for Gianna. Mother married for love and quickly regretted it. Then she had two children, thinking that we would teach her how to love again, and also regretted it.” Santino smiled. “Such is life.” 

“My mother liked to drink,” John said, wondering whether disclosure was going to be another mistake. “If she was feeling flush, she’d shoot up. She had good days. On the bad days, she’d forget that we had to eat. We lived in a trailer park. One night a customer paid her double, because it was her birthday. She overdosed.” 

Santino blinked. Maybe John had misstepped again. Then, rather to John’s surprise, Santino actually flushed slightly. “I see. I didn’t mean to imply… my birthright obviously afforded me a very privileged childhood. Overall.” 

“Well,” John said, puzzled at the sympathy, however guarded, “Looks like your mum dying kinda weighed on you.” 

“Such things do,” Santino said, wary again. “But it was a long time ago.” 

“I didn’t feel anything when my mother died. Maybe I was kinda annoyed that there was a mess, but that would’ve been it. It was that way for a long time. I was either angry or numb. Nothing in between.” John struggled to explain. He’d once tried explaining it to Helen, but she’d smiled, and hadn’t really wanted to listen. The truth would have frightened her. So John had worked on his best approximation of being human, for her. There had been good days. Bad days. 

“You got married.”

“Yeah. First time in forever that I felt something else. I wasn’t even really sure what it was. Told myself it was happiness. But I wasn’t always sure. Doesn’t matter now. Thing is,” John added, when Santino started to frown, “I was numb again. Until you called.”

“Oh, fucking spare me,” Santino growled, rolling his eyes. “You find out you’re a father and it makes you a real boy? Please.”

“You know,” John said dryly, “this is probably a record. You not being an asshole all this time since I sat down until now.” 

“Hope you enjoyed it while you could.”

“What I’m trying to say is,” John persisted, “if you don’t want me around, fine. I’ll go back to New York. I know what I am. But I’d rather not be cut out from the kid’s life completely. If you think it’s okay. Or safe.”

Santino looked down at his lap, fiddling with his sleeve again. “You weren’t terrible this afternoon,” he said, “but matters are still volatile in Italy. Are you interested in work?”

John’s heart sank. “If that’s what it takes.” 

“It’s a yes-no question,” Santino said, looking annoyed. “And before you ask, no, I don’t need another guardian. Cassian’s ward-contract doesn’t oblige him to do anything else, so he’s already a pain in the fucking ass, and he’s only gotten worse since all this came to light.” Santino gestured at his belly.

“Wasn’t going to offer,” John admitted. He wasn’t temperamentally suited to being a bodyguard, Tarasov had once told him, because bodyguards had to actually give a damn about the life they were guarding, and the giving-a-damn part of John’s brain tended to malfunction. “No, I’m not interested in work. But if that’s your price, fine.”

Santino raised his eyebrows. “You’re willing to go that far.”

“I thought you’d ask. Though. I was hoping you wouldn’t.”

“Why,” Santino said, baring his teeth, “how _did_ you think this talk would turn out? The both of us falling into bed and in love, everything forgiven?” He sneered. “Please.” 

“Nope,” John said. He wasn’t delusional. “Give me some credit.” 

“Then?”

“Kinda thought you’d just tell me to fuck off, actually,” John admitted. “Down the barrel of a gun.” 

“And you came to Italy anyway.”

“Thought I’d try.” What did he have left to lose?

“Come here,” Santino said abruptly, patting the couch next to him. John went. Once he sat down, Santino tugged him over, fingertips digging into the back of John’s neck, but John would’ve bent willingly anyway, scenting Santino’s throat. That musk. Something was different about it, better. When Santino let him up, the world felt sharper around the edges. 

Santino’s eyes were hard. “Yes. That’s my price. And I have a name for you. Angelo Di Salvo.” 

Cosa Nostra. John nodded, trying not to let his weariness show. “All right.”

Santino blinked at him, disoriented. “If you need equipment—”

“No. That’s fine.” 

Killing had always been all that John had been good at, the only craft that he could trade. Santino’s price wasn’t unexpected. That Santino actually looked startled that he had agreed to it—now that was something else, but it was a sentiment that John could not begin to parse. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t sentiment that now bound John back to Santino, but something older, another thing that he could not name.

#

Angelo Di Salvo died. John limped back to the Continental in Rome, according to reports, possibly to make use of the in-house medical facilities. Santino tried to pay for it and was politely but firmly rebuffed by Julius. After a few days, John reappeared at the estate, the unnamed Dog in tow. Santino gave him another name, and he left.

At least the whispers of a mutiny faded. Santino consolidated power in Naples and worked on Rome, keeping an eye on New York. The Bowery King was growing bold, but at least the Tarasovs were in disarray still. 

“You could leave the dog with me,” Santino said, the next time John returned, his face bruised, favouring an arm. 

“You think he’s ugly,” John pointed out. It was breakfast, and Santino had been eating when John had been shown in, or trying to. Anything cold in the morning now made him ill, milk made him ill, bread made him ill. And his shoes were starting to pinch. Blood in the water. John looked him over. “You okay?”

“Obviously not. I’m thirty-six. This is risky. And besides that, it’s also fucking uncomfortable. I don’t see why some people fucking put themselves through this more than once. Masochists.” 

“Um—”

“If you’re going to offer sympathy, go fuck yourself.” Santino paused. “Leave the dog.”

“You like dogs?”

“No. But it’d be nice to have something around that’d take orders without feeling the need to make fucking conversation.”

“You’re in a good mood today.” John said, and helped himself to the untouched pastries. 

“You should name the dog.” Santino hesitated, thinking. “Wait. You never told me whether you had a preference for a boy’s name.” 

“I don’t have a preference… actually, maybe not your father’s name,” John amended. “He was a dick.”

“Ran in the family. Now, maybe amplified.” Santino shot John a pointed look. 

“You’re the angriest omega I’ve ever met,” John mused. 

“Oh yes? How many other omegas have you… hm, what’s the American word, ‘knocked up’? Don’t answer that.” Santino stabbed a grape with his fork. “Omegas are taught to be sweet, nice, and calm. ‘De-escalation’, my mother called it. Smile, nod, hope the alpha goes away.” 

“The world’s no longer that bad.”

“Says the alpha.”

John held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Sorry. Okay. You’re right.”

Santino stared at him suspiciously. “You’re trying to be nice.” 

“Trying, yes.” 

“Don’t bother, it’s pathetic. There’s no need. We already have an agreement.”

To his irritation, John merely nodded. “I know.” 

“So?” 

“So,” John said, with studied patience, “since the agreement is going to be an ongoing thing for a while, I was hoping for a ceasefire.” 

Santino stared. He ate the grape, then speared another one. “You want sex? On top of everything?”

“What? I… look. Wait. Is this just how you act towards everyone?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Santino narrowed his eyes. “This isn’t about sex?”

“No! Christ.” 

“Pity,” Santino said, as viciously as he could, eating the grape and stabbing a third as John blinked owlishly at him, thrown off-balance. He smirked. His heat cycles would lie dormant until the pregnancy was well over, so he wasn’t under any illusions: and besides, under the robe, he was starting to show. 

John went from seated to around the table and braced over Santino’s chair with uncomfortable speed. As Santino flinched, John said, very quietly, “Can you not joke about that?”

“Relax. I won’t be in heat for a while. I know you’re not interested.”

“You think we had sex that last time just because you were cycling into heat?”

“What else, alpha? You kept talking about killing me. And then you weren’t.” 

John blinked at him, as though trying to figure out whether he was joking. “Really? You need me to spell it out?”

“Is this the part where you try to pay me a compliment?” Santino bared his teeth. “Go on. Make me laugh.”

“Jesus, you’re such an asshole,” John muttered, and leaned in, scenting, tentative until Santino grudgingly relaxed and curled fingers into John’s hair. 

John kissed his pulse, then the hollow of his throat, and when Santino rumbled, a little surprised, he kissed down, further, over Santino’s chest, gently undoing the robe. He kissed over the swell in Santino’s belly, soft, worshipful kisses until Santino shoved him down, then he pulled down Santino’s pants and underwear and tried to lick the stiffening cock, shifting lower only when Santino clenched his hand warningly in John’s hair. 

Like the last time, John didn’t bother with teasing: he nosed in and started licking, hard, pulling Santino’s legs up onto his shoulders, muffling groans as he loudly ate Santino out. Santino pushed fingers into his own mouth, biting down as John’s tongue thrust into him, thirsty, sideburns rough on soft skin. Santino ground against him, wanting more, dizzy as he shook easily into his first orgasm, which John drank down. 

Santino’s teeth had left red crescent marks on his own fingers by the time John dutifully licked him clean and fixed his clothes. “Still need that compliment?” John asked, husky with lust, and he ran his tongue over his slick mouth. 

“Your next target is Stefano Bonsignore,” Santino said, perhaps a touch too quickly, still catching his breath. “Leave the dog.”

#

Stefano Bonsignore died, very messily, on the outskirts of Rome. It had been a long chase. John checked in at the Continental, fell asleep once he lay on the bed, woke up a few hours later to Ares prodding him insistently in the shoulder, and fell asleep again in the car as she ferried him somewhere.

He woke up in another bed, warm, stripped down to his underwear, his mouth pressed over a familiar scent. Asleep, Santino was gorgeous, with his long lashes, his thick curls, his plush mouth. John remembered _this_ much from the heat. He kissed Santino’s throat, rumbling, licking lower, towards one dark nipple, then fingers dug into his hair, tightly enough that he winced. 

“Fuck you, just sleep,” Santino grumbled, without opening his eyes. 

“Stefano’s dead.”

Santino’s brow crinkled. “You weren’t exactly subtle about it. This is Italy, not New York. Our understanding with the police is not so flexible.” 

“You could’ve let me sleep it off at the Continental.” John sucked a mark into the skin against his mouth. Santino flinched. “Something up?” 

“I’ll tell you later,” Santino said, annoyed, and rolled over, sleepily nuzzling John’s throat. He dozed off while John kept carefully still, and John watched him sleep, bemused. 

John greeted the morning by kissing the bump and nearly got kneed in the throat as Santino startled awake. “Don’t do that,” Santino grumbled, rolling on his side, grabbing at John’s shoulder. “Move.” 

“Move?” John sat up, and Santino swore, tugging at his elbow. 

“Your big cock. That’s what I missed last night,” Santino said, glowering at him. “So move, _stronzo_.”

“You sent Ares to dig me out of the Continental for that?” John pressed a finger into Santino, and sucked in a slow breath as he found him already loosened and wet. Christ. That was hot.

“You’re bigger than my toys,” Santino said, and smirked as John gasped and bit down on his lower lip. Prep was a fumbled blur, and they were both groaning as John pushed in, one of Santino’s thighs pressed against the sheets, the other caught against John’s shoulder, spreading him wide. John took him slowly, inching his hips forward in lazy thrusts, keeping Santino pinned and ignoring the scratching, the snarls, the loud invective. Italian was a graceful language even when spoken gracelessly. Eventually, Santino switched to Neapolitan, and then he went quiet, hoarse. He moaned when John finally took his cock in hand, squeezing his eyes shut, fingers clutching at the sheets as he spilled against the swell of his belly, and it was John’s turn to moan, grinding deep as his knot grew and caught.

“You feel good,” John murmured, as he managed to manoeuvre them into a more comfortable position, though Santino winced as they moved. 

“You don’t.”

“Something has to be good,” John said, his fingers slipping down past Santino’s balls, only to be quickly swatted away. “Better than your toys.” He nipped Santino on the neck. 

“At least they don’t talk.” Santino said, pinching John hard on the arm. “Next time, just sleep in one of the villas. Ares hates having to play fetch.”

#

Santino was still staring at the colour printouts in the car. Reality had a terrible tendency of reasserting itself. Despite his shoes and clothes starting not to fit and the persistent morning sickness, Santino had been vaguely surprised to find that some part of him had still been in denial. Colour ultrasounds had made short work of _that_.

Beside him, John wordlessly took the printouts from him, and Santino rested his forehead against the cool glass, closing his eyes. “Something wrong?” Cassian asked from the front passenger seat, his voice low. He actually sounded genuinely worried.

“No?” John said. He was flipping through the printouts. “Doctor was confident. Nothing wrong from the prenatal tests. Even the special ones.”

“Okay, so what’s the boss’ problem?”

“Dunno. Something about the pictures.” Paper rustled. John was handing the printouts to the front of the car. 

“Huh. They look like the heat maps you kinda get when you’re going through a forest at night with a scope.” Cassian said. “No offense.” 

“That bit’s the head, and I think that’s probably the arms,” John said helpfully.

“I’m going to have the two of you shot,” Santino said, his eyes squeezed shut, trying to swallow his sudden nausea. 

“Look at it this way, boss,” Cassian said. “The two of you are going to be pretty bad parents. Possibly a disaster. But not the worst disaster.” 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” John said. 

“Don’t mention it. It’s the truth. I can’t really imagine a scenario where the two of you are actually any good at raising a kid. Right Ares? Nevermind, she’s been ignoring me since this morning. The boss is a piece of work, and you actually scare me sometimes, John. ” 

“Sorry.”

“He’s not scary,” Santino muttered. 

“You’re way too full of yourself to be scared about anything, that’s what. Not a good thing.” 

“I’m cancelling your ward-contract.” It was a threat that he made maybe twice a week, and it was always empty. Despite what had happened to Gianna, which couldn’t be helped because it had involved John, Cassian was actually one of the finest bodyguards on the market. 

“Eh, you’re just in a bad mood because you’re hormonal, sick all the time, can’t eat anything good, can’t smoke or drink, and have to eat pills that look like cockroach eggs.” 

“I should shoot you myself,” Santino said. It would have been nice. Through the headrest of the car seat, maybe. Except that he hadn’t been personally armed for _weeks_ , on Ares’ pointed suggestion. Just in case. “After I shoot John.”

“Sure, boss. Whatever you say.”

“Think you’re enjoying this,” John told Cassian, mildly accusing. 

“‘Course.” Cassian said, expansive. “Karma’s my bitch.”

#

Karma was indeed a bitch, though not Cassian’s, as it turned out. -He’ll be fine,- Ares signed, as they took a breather. The old palazzo had a warren of interconnecting rooms, threaded together with framed paintings. The high ceilings echoed with the sound of controlled gunfire bursts and shouted orders.

-Not worried about him.- Santino signed back, distracted. Cassian had stayed behind to slow down one of the paramilitary Carabinieri teams. On hindsight, effectively declaring war on all comers by using John as a weapon of mass destruction had probably been a bad idea. The police had a limit, and the bodies _had_ been piling up. 

Still. Someone had to have broken omertà. And even if the other Camorra families survived the raid on their latest meeting place, they were still going to be pissed. A ceasefire would have to be negotiated. Thinking over the details as Ares hustled him down an old servant’s access, the ceiling low over their heads, Santino nearly slipped down the stairs in surprise when he felt… _something_. A kick? 

Ares stopped short, turning questioningly. -Okay?-

-Fine,- Santino replied, gritting his teeth. There was no doubt that the monster he was carrying was John’s. It shared its father’s godawful sense of timing. -Someone’s broken the code.-

-We can worry about that later,- Ares signed, as they emerged into the catacombs under the palazzo, and of course that was when everything went completely to hell. A second squad, waiting. 

“Santino D’Antonio!” someone barked, as Ares motioned Santino urgently up the stairs. “You’re under arrest! Come out with your hands up!” 

Ares looked at him. -Go. I’ll hold them here.-

-There’s no other way out,- Santino pointed out. A window, climbing down? He wouldn’t risk that. 

-Hide somewhere and wait it out.- Ares suggested, glancing down the narrow stairs, probably towards her death. 

-And do what? Wait for John?- Santino rolled his eyes. -He’s probably still in Rome.- Besides, having John save his ass was going to be supremely annoying. -This is why we pay my lawyers a retainer.- “All right,” he called. “I’m coming out.” -You hide upstairs.- 

-If you’re going to surrender, I’m coming with you.- Ares’ gestures were emphatic, and she could not be budged. Taking in a deep breath, Santino walked slowly out of the stairwell, his hands up. They were cuffed quickly by the Carabinieri officers and patted down, even as one of the officers pushed through to the front, a face that Santino recognised. 

He managed a smile. “Ah, Vice-Comandante Generale Marino. I didn’t think you would be the sort to get your hands dirty. I’m honoured.” 

“An operation like this needs a special touch.” Marino was young for his rank, lean, tall, with the hard, fierce eyes of a hunting bird. 

“You’re declaring war on the High Table, I see.” 

Marino sniffed. “You’ve broken the Covenant.”

“I really doubt that,” Santino said, as Marino grabbed his elbow, hauling him along, the other Carabinieri filing through the warren of tunnels in orderly ranks. 

“So you are telling me that you did not escalate a war with Cosa Nostra and the ’Ndrangheta.”

Santino’s smile widened. “I am a winemaker, Generale.” 

“Right. Just a legitimate businessman.” Marino rolled his eyes. Ares was hustled past, further past the ranks, and she twisted in the grip of her captors when Marino slowed down. Santino shook his head, and she bared her teeth, but allowed herself to be shoved out of sight as the tunnels eventually turned. 

“As you say.” Marino and a couple of Carabinieri were taking Santino down another corridor. A separate exit, perhaps. That would be clever, if they were afraid of the D’Antonio retainers marshalling a rescue. 

“Bullshit. The morgues in Rome are currently full of your bullshit. The Comandante Generale couldn’t ignore that.” 

“But we didn’t break the Covenant,” Santino guessed. John wouldn’t be that careless. He didn’t kill civilians.

“Does it matter?” Marino growled. “You started a war. Wars have consequences. Look. We get it. Your sister was murdered, yes? You had to retaliate. Is that why?”

Santino held his smile, tightly controlling his temper. “Lawyer, please.”

“Don’t give me that shit.” Marino tugged hard, making Santino stumble and curse. “Who was it? The first one you had killed was Angelo Di Salvo. Did he ally with the rest? Went after your sister? Then you? So you had to respond with your own army.” Santino laughed, and Marino reddened, angry. “You won’t talk.”

“Lawyer—” Santino began, and stumbled back as Marino hit him in the jaw. He coughed, spitting out blood: he’d bitten his tongue. “That wasn’t very polite.” 

“It’ll be nice to make you have your day in court,” Marino said quietly. They had come to a stop, in an empty cellar that had likely once held wine barrels. _Ah_. “But as you said. You’re High Table. You’ll walk. Even if you broke the Covenant. Someone will take the fall.”

“So this is your plan?” Santino said, a little incredulous, as the two Carabinieri waited outside, Marino dragging him further in. “Murder an unarmed, pregnant omega in a cellar? The press would _love_ that.” 

“You’re…” Marino trailed off, startled, and looked him slowly over. Then his eyes hardened, and he pushed Santino down on his knees. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll set it up like a suicide.” 

“The High Table won’t go away just because you kill one of us.” 

Marino’s lip curled as he levelled the pistol at Santino’s head. “You criminals. Think you can kill who you want, where you want. You’re all scum.” 

“I didn’t send an army against the other clans,” Santino said, and life was ironic this way, that at the end, he too would die with his mother’s calm, a last, useless piece of armour. “I sent one man.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“Do you have family, Generale? People you treasure? The reaper will come for them, if you kill me. The bogeyman.”

“I know the name of every wetworks operative this side of Europe. None of them could have taken out all those bosses by themselves. It’s impossible.”

“Not for him. I suppose he was retired before. And now he is not.” If Santino stalled long enough, maybe— “Perhaps you’ve heard of John Wick.”

To his annoyance, Marino laughed. “Nice try, Santino. I know Cosa Nostra sent John Wick after you. I was in the crew that handled cleanup in the catacombs. You survived. Your sister didn’t.” 

“And why,” Santino inquired, “do you think I survived?” 

“How should I know? I know he chased you to the Continental in New York. I presume you paid him off.” 

“He can’t be bought. Not with money. Come on, Generale. Don’t make me spell it out.” 

“You’re…” Marino stared at him, and there, the faintest waver in the barrel of the gun. “Anything to survive, hm? You’re all like rats.”

“So let me go,” Santino said, smiling. “We both walk.” 

“I think I’ll take my chances—” Marino faltered, glancing towards the door at the sudden loud retort. A gunshot. One of the officers staggered into view, his submachine gun scattering an arc of bullets before he fell backwards, toppling. 

Santino didn’t wait to watch. He was lunging up, tucking down his head, butting Marino as hard as he could in the chin. Marino yelled, the pistol going off, too close to Santino’s ears, his hearing shattering into a dull ringing. The world tilted. They collapsed in a heap, Santino snarling, trying to wriggle up to get his teeth in Marino’s throat. Beyond the theatre of war, past wisdom, war itself was always bestial. Something discharged in a flash from the door, another gunshot. Marino went limp. 

Hands helped him up, but Santino sat on the cold stone, still breathing hard, staring up blankly as John patted Marino down, then unlocked his cuffs. When Santino eventually recovered his bearings and got up, his hearing was coming back.

“You’re,” he began, then took in a deep breath, and another, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Late, I know.” John was nuzzling his throat, his fingertips light on Santino’s hips, circling around to his back when Santino instinctively pressed closer, hands clenching in John’s suit.

“Ares?” Santino said, his mouth buried against John’s collar. 

“She’ll be fine. Catching a breather.” 

“Cassian’s still back in the palazzo.” 

“He’ll be fine too. Seems the squad that he locked down in a firefight retreated. C’mon.” 

Santino peered over John’s arm, at Marino’s shattered head. “You shouldn’t have killed him,” he said, though his voice was unsteady. “He could’ve been useful.” 

“Yeah, yeah. You can bitch me out at home. C’mon.” 

“Why aren’t you in Rome?” Santino asked, when they’d limped to John’s car—or more accurately, Santino’s Huracan Performante. 

“Heard wind of some big police op going down near Naples. So I took the fastest car in your garage. Had a few close calls on the way here.” 

“Get him to the base,” Cassian said, holding his flank. “Ares and I will find another car.” 

“Did you get Giovanni Vitale?” Santino said, when they were speeding into the night, the Performante’s monstrous acceleration flattening him against the seat. 

“Nope. Don’t complain.” 

“Wasn’t going to,” Santino said, turning his face away, closing his eyes, which stung, briefly. Relief was a weakness that he would prefer to keep to himself. He did not fear death, but looking down the barrel of a gun, Santino had found that he could still fear for the life of another. He pressed his palm to his belly, and stared into the dark. 

John was quiet through cleaning up and the hours of calls that Santino made, eating into the night, and stayed quiet as they curled together in bed. “The other Camorra clan heads made it out alive,” Santino said, cheek pressed to John’s chest. “The police were only after me.” John made a noncommittal sound. “We were too confident. The Covenant has held since the first High Table was seated. We thought it would hold forever.” 

“Mm.” John nuzzled his throat. “I’m not sorry about killing that guy.” 

“I’ll have to talk to the Comandante Generale. And find out who broke the code.” Make peace in his own house. And then offer a ceasefire with Cosa Nostra, ‘Ndrangheta, the others. From a bargaining position of power. Or not.

“Sleep,” John said, kissing his temple. “All of that can wait.” 

“I nearly lost everything today.” Santino said. He wasn’t afraid now, or even rueful. Life always taught hard lessons, and Santino had always tried to be an apt learner. 

Another man would have promised protection, or comfort. Something gentle. Kissed him again, perhaps. John hauled himself up onto one elbow, watching him in the bone-light of the moon, silent. Bogeymen made poor protectors. They could only avenge. Santino reached for John anyway, pulling him close, their foreheads pressed together, sharing a slow breath. Then Santino kissed John over his eyes, his mouth. 

“Giovanni Vitale,” Santino said. “And after that, the code-breaker.” He would speak their deaths and more into the dark. And he would regret nothing. Against Santino, the reaper nodded, brushing a kiss against his jaw, further, down to his pulse, breathing him in.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent  
> \--  
> Colour ultrasounds :o http://www.webmd.com/dvt/doppler-ultrasound#1
> 
> I can’t believe I’m reading this stuff for this fic, I don’t even like babies and I find pregnancy personally horrifying XD;; (ymmv ofc) http://www.webmd.com/baby/guide/pregnancy-after-35#1 
> 
> A friend of mine was one of those 1 in 10 women who have morning sickness for the whole pregnancy, it was scary. At one point she could only eat big macs? Was very weird. She’s an awesome patisserie chef too (and her sister as well), which was kinda sad… they kept trying to bake/cook something that wouldn’t trigger it. Silver lining: I got to eat some of their rejected stuff http://www.mydr.com.au/babies-pregnancy/morning-sickness
> 
> Police who arrest Italian mafia: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/jun/26/mafia-ernesto-fazzalari-arrest-ndrangheta-calabrian-italy IRL there’s a special task group vs the Calabrian mafia (‘Ndrangheta) called the Hunters of Calabria, but doesn’t seem to be one vs Camorra. 
> 
> The Lamborghini Huracan Performante: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/cars/lamborghini/lamborghini-huracan-performante-faster-louder-angrier/


End file.
